The film began to speed up, but this time with Perun still inside. It was like being spun gently around in circles, and he felt his stomach pitch up into his jaw.

He pursued the man through the factory at a break-neck, comical speed, following him up onto a higher floor where the man had attempted to swing some of the iron chains at him. That had somehow started some of the machinery rattling, gears grinding away and reminding Perun of the petulant grumbling of a thunder storm before the first lightning bolts began to jump and drop.

Perun fired off a few shots, sparks flying as all of them missed and ricocheted wildly off of pieces of metal near and much further away. The man retreated from the sparks and ran a different way, towards stairs made of metal grates that descended steeply into the dark below. And then something happened. Perun couldn't see exactly what, it was too shadowy and the action too fast. He only saw that the man fell and -- the film jerked into a faster forward --was ripped apart by the moving cogs below. Blood splattered like thrown paint and the cracking of bones like matchsticks breaking was accompanied by the screech and howl of gears being halted and forced to slow.

Perun felt himself falling to his knees and feeling he was going to be sick. . .but it was over in a few seconds and he was pulling himself up and racing back the way he came. Fleeing out into the night and leaving the door wide open, he threw himself into a motor wagon waiting outside and sped over to Small Side. There, he jerkily ducked into a bar to wash his face and wipe his shoes of the bit of blood that had dried on them, then he was at the bar draining a shot of alcohol before returning on foot to Libuše's flat.

The film slowed to normal pace as he climbed the stairs and unlocked the door. Perun breathed a sigh of relief, glad the nauseous feeling was ebbing. He understood now why Dima was taking him out of the film and putting him back in again when longer periods of time had to be skipped. He'd assuredly be sick all over himself if he had to stay at that spasmodic, lurching speed much longer.

Inside the flat, he drew off his hat, tossing his gloves into the upturned inside, and then slipped out of his coat, methodically hanging it on the coatrack. When he turned round, Libuše stood in the doorway of the salon staring at him from large, brown eyes. He felt a surge of love course through him that was as painful as it was sincere.

He stepped forward and drew her into an embrace. He felt her slight hesitation, but then her arms wrapped around his waist and she laid her head on his chest. The feeling of her warm body against his was the most soothing balm to his jangled nerves. He held her for a minute or two, then sighed.

"It's over, my darling," he whispered into her hair. "All over. Everything is going to work out now. You'll see. We'll have a perfect life from now on."

"What? What do you mean? What's over?" Libuše pulled herself away slightly to look up at him with a faint smile. The question was asked innocently enough, but there was a hint of suspicion in her eyes that went a little bit too deep for Perun's liking. From his point of observation, he could almost bet she knew exactly what he was talking about, and was fully prepared for it, even if she was doing a good job of pretending she had no idea. She was an actress, after all, he reminded himself. Although perhaps not a good one this close up.

"You're going to get help, my love," he answered. "Proper help. Not that powder you take. I know the pain you're in, darling, I understand, I do, but there are better ways. It's time you trusted me and we look for a clinic for you. It's time, Libuše."

Her arms fell out the embrace, and she gently push his own arms out of her way. He reluctantly let her go, his lips pursing in mild annoyance. She turned and went back into the salon without a word. He followed her.

"Perun, we've argued about this so many times," she said, with her back to him, the coppery silk of her loose evening dress shimmering in the glow of the gas lights. "I'm tired of arguing. I know you don't approve, but you don't know everything. I'm not your wife and I'm not your child. I'll do what I want. I don't need your permission and I'm not about to go to any clinic. I wish you would get that through your thick head." She sounded weary, like someone who has repeated themselves too many times and simply wants the topic take its hat and quietly leave their life.

"I don't want to control you. I want to stop you from destroying yourself. You need help and what kind of a man would I be if I didn't do everything in my power to help the woman I love? You'll thank me one day, my darling. You will."

Libuše leaned her head back to look up at the ceiling as if imploring the gods to save her from this tedious conversation. From his point of observation, Perun could only shake his head. She wasn't going to change. He was wasting his breath.

"No, I won't. You just don't understand, Perun. You really don't."

"Then explain it to me! Tell me why you need to escape reality when you have everything! A lovely flat, an audience at the theatre who loves you and a man at home who loves you even more. Other women would tear each other's eyes out for what you have."

Libuše snorted laugh full of derision and scorn before bringing up a hand to clap over her forehead. "You are so stupid, Perun. Go away. Just go away and leave me alone. I don't want to talk about this anymore. I'm tired. I'll see you at the theatre tomorrow. Now leave."

"No. I'm not going anywhere, Libuše, not until you hear me out. Are you listening?" he shouted the words at her back, but she still hadn't turned to face him. "Are you listening?"

"Crucifix! Will you shut up! I'm so tired of hearing you babble about this shit! I'll do what I want and I'll take whatever I feel like! You can't stop me and I won't be stopped. Now GET OUT!" The final words she roared in the direction of the walls and the windows that looked out over the small square. The curtains were drawn. No one in any of the neighbouring houses would be able to see her arms jerking up and down in a rage of temper.

"Oh, I can stop you and I have. Your connection's been cut, Libuše. Snip, gone! You won't be getting any more of your help. I've just made sure of that. You'll be staying right here in reality. And in whatever clinic I put you in."

Libuše whirled round to face him, her face a flushed mask of rage, lips drawn back into a snarl. "Like hell I will. What are you talking about, idiot?"

He could feel how malicious delight merged with pride and a sense of hopelessness in his chest, causing him to spit out the next words with such vehemence that he trembled.

"That gutter criminal who's been supplying you all this time is dead. No more powder for the princess."

"Dead?" Libuše's face went immediately pale, all the red draining out as her eyes went wide. "What, what are you saying? How...dead?"

"I've just killed the person you were getting your precious heroin from. That's what I'm saying. I'm saying I love you so much, that I've killed for you. I told you I'd do anything to stop you hurting yourself, anything. And now I have done. You've made me into a murderer."

As Libuše stared at him, mouth open, arm extended out towards him in a theatrical gesture of disbelief.

Unbidden, the image of the man falling into the cogs of the machine and the fountain of blood floated up into mind of his former self making his stomach lurch. He hadn't intended that. Shoot him, yes. Kill him, yes. But not get . . . ground up like that. It was an image he thought would stay with him the rest of his life.

You're right there, thought Perun, just not in the way you might have expected.

Libuše screamed, a long animal-like shriek, smashing the image with her shrillness of her voice.

"What have you done? You fool, what have you done? I hate you! I hate you, do you hear me? You've ruined everything!"

She dashed to the wall and began throwing anything within arm's reach at him: cushions, books, trinkets, an empty glass. He considered retreating to the corridor for a split second, but then anger, disappointment and his already hyped up emotions got the best of him.

He charged.

Tackling her, and taking her down onto the Persian carpet between two stuffed armchairs, he then pinned her arms to her side, and slapped her hard across the face. Libuše halted mid-scream to stare at him – and then began struggling harder, screeching, kicking and gnashing her teeth in the direction of his shoulder, attempting to bite him.

"It's over! No more, Libuše, no more! It's a clinic if I have to tie you up and drag you there myself!"

"Get off me, you bastard, before I kill you!" Libuše screamed. "I swear to god, I'll kill you if you've done her in! You won't be the only murderer here. I can kill just as well as you can."

They struggled with each other, neither one of them willing to give in, neither one of them gaining the upper hand for very long. Red-faced and panting, they grunted, rolled and fought their way metres across the carpet until they were almost in the middle of the salon again.

And then, from the doorway, the sound of someone clearing their throat could be heard and then a woman's voice saying, "I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?"